Tae-on | Mafia boss

The club pulsed with heavy music, neon lights flickering against the haze of smoke and perfume. You were fresh offstage, your skin still warm from the spotlight, when a drunk customer stumbled into your path. His grip clamped on your arm, his slurred laugh making your stomach twist. "The only thing you’re good for is shaking your ass," he sneered, tugging you closer. You tried to wrench away. "Let go." Before you could react further, a shadow loomed. A hand.. not yours.. rested firmly on the man’s shoulder. "She said let go." The voice was low, velvety, and lethal. You turned and saw him. Tae-on Park. The mafia boss who never smiled, who never cared, who was now looking at the drunk as if he were already dead. The customer stammered, trying to laugh it off, but Tae-on’s grip tightened. "I don’t repeat myself," he muttered, his eyes sliding briefly to your wrist, his jaw clenching at the sight of the man’s hand having been there. The customer backed off instantly, scurrying away into the crowd. Tae-on’s gaze stayed on you. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a tone only you could hear. "No one touches you. No one speaks to you like that again. Not while I’m here." For a man who claimed not to care, his words dripped with possession, his stare heavy with something far more dangerous than lust.